


weak hours

by Arianne, patrexes



Series: Kinktober 2019 [12]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Biting, Established Relationship, F/M, Fear of Discovery, Frottage, Kinktober 2019, Making Out, Sibling Incest, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 20:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21004040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: “Alisaie,” Alphinaud hissed, stage whisper uncomfortably loud in the night.





	weak hours

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [edge of discovery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20795912) by [Arianne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne), [patrexes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes). 

> prompt: biting. set a few <strike>months</strike> moons after [edge of discovery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20795912).

“_Alisaie_,” Alphinaud hissed, stage whisper uncomfortably loud in the night.

Alisaie released Alphinaud’s collarbone from her teeth at once, lifting her head with a shroud of quilts still clinging to her hair. “Was that too hard?”

“No,” Alphinaud assured her, the realization simultaneous with the admission. “No, far from it. But if they _heard_—”

“They won’t,” Alisaie said, her voice even at a whisper entirely too level. “We’ve never been heard at school.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” he insisted, likely as she was to be right. At the Studium their dormitory housed dozens, two to each room, and such sounds were easily ignored, if the room of their origin could even be identified above the general din.

“You worry too much. Just keep your voice down!” said Alisaie. Alphinaud gnawed at his lower lip, casting his eyes about the room as if the walls might offer a course of action. On the opposite side of one wall slept their grandparents, and in the living room into which the door opened their parents, fifteen fulms away at most. There was no lock upon the door, and even had there been—what excuse had they to offer for turning it, should someone check on them? _Alisaie_ may not care what their parents thought of them, but the idea of being found so compromised put a sick feeling in the pit of Alphinaud’s stomach. The bed they shared—their mother’s from childhood, an ancient thing with rusty old springs—creaked when so much as one of them sat upon its edge, and if he couldn’t keep still, or couldn’t keep _quiet_, it was a certainty they would be caught.

“_Alphinaud_, please,” Alisaie murmured. Her voice was soft, plaintive as it so rarely was. “I—I miss having you.”

At long last Alphinaud nodded. She flashed him a smile (barely visible in what little filtered through the window, the moon over Ilsabard even in midsummer boasting far less light than Sharlayan’s midnight sun), and this time took his mouth. For all his fears, he needed this—needed _her_, anchor and pole star both, for all it sometimes smarted ever looking for his sister at his side before starting an uncertain course. Alisaie was bright and brave, and her touch warm, her lips on his tasting of ginger, of home and safety and _you are not alone_. Alphinaud never felt the loss of her so keenly as in the moment of their reunion. In these last few weeks they’ve barely touched, Alphinaud not brave enough to take such a risk—now, with Alisaie’s fingers woven in the spaces between his own, her body half atop his with her knee between his thighs and his likewise between hers, with the tip of her tongue pressing insistent between his parted lips Alphinaud didn’t know how he’d ever found the strength in himself to push her away.

He knew, as he knew the laws governing the aspects of æther, he would not find that strength again.

Even Alisaie, brave to the point of foolhardiness, did not dare to grind against Alphinaud’s thigh as their kiss grew sloppy and her cunt wet against his bare skin, nightgown hiked up by her own knee. She caught his lip between her teeth, not _biting_ so much as bringing it with her as she pulled away, and he swallowed the moan the tingling heat dragged up from his chest. “Would that I could bite your lip bloody,” she mourned, a whisper against his mouth.

“Would that you could,” he murmured back, “and would that I could give you my fingers.”

He has found completion of her teeth alone before, and more than once. The sting of her bite—teeth as sharp as her tongue and his blood upon _that_—was a pain so familiar it had long since been pleasure, and for Alisaie a comfort: even in diapers she would chew toothlessly on his fingers until the pads pruned. Now more often than not, those students who realized there were _two_ Leveilleurs in attendance at the Studium told them apart by Alphinaud’s ever-split lip.

Forbidden his mouth for fear of their parents’ questions, Alisaie kissed down the line of his jaw and neck instead, a shift of her weight on her elbow making the old mattress groan in overloud complaint. She bit and sucked at the fragile skin, leaving naught untouched until his whole neck was stinging warm. When she made to do the same to the side of his neck she had _not_ yet ravaged, her knee slipped against the slick between his thighs. Alphinaud gasped on his inhale, blush burning high upon his cheeks and no-doubt the shells of his ears; forced still his hips not to rock into the contact and make the bed creak—there was but one explanation for the racket such a rhythm would cause.

Heart pounding and giddy from desire and terror commingled, he buried a breathless laugh in Alisaie’s hair. “You’ll leave nothing of my neck but bruises.” 

“You’re not—” said Alisaie, nipping at him between the words, “—worrying—about _that_ too—are you?” With calculated intentionality and no doubt a gleam in her eyes could he but see them, Alisaie sucked _hard_ on his neck, bringing up a schoolgirl’s bruise. “I’ve not so much as seen your neck since we arrived.” 

“It’s _cold_ here!” Alphinaud argued, for the sake of it more than anything. Sharlayan was further north, if by only a little, but sea currents warmed the air on its coasts. Here, inland, the winter snow only melted late in the third astral moon and the wind was as fain to bite as Alisaie; ever prone to chill, Alphinaud had taken to wearing scarves over his habitually high collars. Even their matching flannel nightgowns, tailored to their diminutive figures, buttoned all the way up the neck, and though Alisaie always wore her own open so far it was like to be indecent at the wrong angle, she’d had to undo a column of button-and-loop clasps to get at his throat.

Alisaie scoffed into his neck. “I’ll not complain of habits which favor me,” she said, and bit down with such force to tear a yelp from his throat. 

“Sorry!” Her voice was barely soft enough to be a whisper—though the cause was well enough lost, Alphinaud’s own cry echoing in his worries. If their parents saw this, Alphinaud with his collar undone, both their faces flush… even with the most incriminating evidence hidden beneath the quilts there were so many things that could go wrong, give away their secret. “I let myself be swept up. I… I shouldn’t have. I don’t think I can heal it.” That Alisaie could apply even a fraction of the theory their grandfather had insisted upon teaching them was a testament to her skill with arcanima—she had a natural talent Alphinaud lacked. _He_ certainly could not have cast _Physick_; would not have even brought it up as something one could think to hope for. He did not need to see her, in the dark and burrowed back into the quilts besides, to know she must have been blushing from ear to ear. Heart pounding, he wrapped his arm across her shoulders to pull her into a true embrace, heart aching to feel her bury her face in his neck… only to realize she was not hiding, but _lapping_ at his skin where she had broken it, and _oh_, he must be bleeding, and if it were to stain his nightgown—

There was a soft knock on the door, followed by their father’s voice: “Alphinaud? Alisaie? Did someone cry out?”

“Ah—yes, father. Sorry to wake you,” Alphinaud said in full voice that he willed not to crack. “Alisaie elbowed me in the ribs.” In his apprehension, he could not muster the will to sound properly annoyed. Alisaie for her part laid stock-still, flush to his side.

“Used to separate beds now, are you? Well,” their father said, “I’m glad nothing is amiss. You should—get back to sleep.” From the yawn in his voice, it sounded more that _he_ would like to, and Alphinaud for his part meant to encourage him.

“We will! Goodnight,” and if he sounded frantic their father was like as not too tired to notice.

“Goodnight.” 

The floorboards creaked as their father crossed the living room, and then the whine of the springs as he resettled into the cots appointed for their parents. Alphinaud let out the breath in his lungs too fast to be silent. His heart still raced. Letting his head fall back to the pillow, in that purgatory between relief and denial (they couldn’t have gotten away with it, their father would realize the quake in Alphinaud’s voice and come back to check on them properly, they—), Alisaie shifted, pulled him closer so that her chest was pressed up against his own. 

Her heart was pounding nearly as fast as his. “Worrywort,” she murmured fond into the crook of his neck, and pressed her lips to his pulse.

“We were nearly caught!”

“Only _nearly_,” Alisaie said, as if he was meant to find dumb luck convincing. She clung to his shoulders, thumbs digging hard into his collarbones. Her thighs caught fast his own, her hips just barely rocking to rub her clit against him, his skin sticky-wet with her slick.

“We can’t—” he started, but she kissed him, her hand snaking up his thigh to join the press of her knee, rucking up the hem of his nightgown further as she went. With her other hand she grasped his wrist, dragged it between them, pressed the flat of his hand against her cunt. He curled his fingers, finding her entrance, pressing _in_—as she did in turn, two fingers slipping deep into his wet cunt, and this time when Alphinaud cried out, it was swallowed by Alisaie’s mouth on his.

**Author's Note:**

> and in the weak hours when we’re fighting sleep  
longing for each other’s teeth  
longing for the things we think we need  
to make it through
> 
> —good lust, keaton henson


End file.
